All the Tomorrows

by Nillu Nasser

  Ruhi’s terse voice filtered through the earpiece. “Come home, Jaya. We need to speak to you.”

  “We?” said Jaya.

  “Maa, Papa, me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just come home.”

  She hailed a rickshaw, wondering if one of her parents had taken a fall or if they lay dying. Then she shook her head, willing only good thoughts to enter it.

  The evening had cooled when she unlocked the door and entered the living room. Her family rose from their seats, stacked in height order: her father the tallest, then Ruhi, followed by her mother, her eyes glinting with—what was it—glee?

  Jaya addressed her sister. “What is it? What’s so urgent?”

  “Have you seen the news?” said her father.

  Ruhi held a hand to her father’s concave chest, quelling him. “Let me, Papa.” She turned to Jaya, and her sister had morphed into a little girl once more, eyes wide pools of darkness, protected where she stood, nestled between their parents. “Akash is alive.”

  A vice-like grip on Jaya’s chest, pressure like none she had felt before. “You found him? Is he well?” She had expected as much, after her suspicions about Soraya and her son, but this blow hit her anew, confirmation that Akash had chosen to stay away all these years.

  Her mother’s voice, sharp as glass shards, cut through her thoughts. “He was arrested for the murder of Soraya Mansoor, a businesswoman.”

  Jaya swayed, a ball of grief knotting in her stomach. All this time searching for news of him, and then this. This wasn’t how she wanted their story to end. Maybe it wasn’t Akash’s fault. Soraya had it coming, didn’t she? Her pride, her vanity, taking what didn’t belong to her, violating the unspoken rules of sisterhood. It had all propelled her to this fate. Ironic, that her lover had been her executioner. But no, however she considered it, Jaya could not reconcile this version of Akash with the man she had known. If the boy in the restaurant happened to be Akash’s son, surely that was sacred, and would have prevented Akash from laying a finger on the mother of his child?

  Her mother continued, oblivious to Jaya’s turmoil. “The woman was well known, I hear. Poor thing. Who knew we would have a killer in the family?” she tittered. “I always knew Akash was trouble.”

  “No, you didn’t Maa, or else you would never have agreed to the match. We know how exacting your standards are,” said Ruhi, taking an uncharacteristic swipe at her elder.

  Their bickering grew hazy. Jaya needed to know only one thing. “Are you sure it’s him?” she said, fighting to retain logic.

  Now, when she had begun to feel free again, the shackles of her past had come to haunt her. To know Akash’s whereabouts at last, in these circumstances, it was almost cruel. All the time she had spent looking for clues about his fate, and for him to now come tumbling into the frame, not a valiant knight, but with blood on his hands. It couldn’t be true.

  “They said his name, clear as day on the news, beta,” said her father, leaning on his cane. “There was some footage too, taken with a telephone. It was grainy but I know it was him. He looks old, uncared for. He deserves it after what he did to us.”

  “He didn’t do it to us, Papa. He did it to me,” said Jaya. Her legs did not feel like hers.

  Ruhi looked at her with concern. “Are you okay? I don’t believe it, Jaya. There has to be some mistake, but we wanted you to hear it from us.”

  Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a light switch flicked off. Jaya spiralled into darkness where melancholy waited. Voices filtered through to her from far away.

  When she woke, Ruhi was applying a damp cloth to her forehead.

  “Let’s get you upstairs. You need to rest. That was hard news.” Her sister took her weight as they climbed the stairs. “Would you like me to stay?”

  “I need to be alone.” She pushed everyone away because they were not Akash, but he had shown himself time and again to be the villain of the piece. A sob caught in her throat.

  “Okay. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  That night, her old dreams returned to haunt her. Licking flames, burning skin, rising, scalding heat she could not endure, and at the window, not a frozen, distraught husband, but a gleeful one, enjoying the spectacle he had created, feeding on her anguished screams.

  Arjun’s hands shook as he lifted a glass of water to his lips. He swallowed slowly.

  “Thank you for coming to see me,” said Inspector Fortes.

  His mother would have been pleased to see a woman in charge of the investigation. “Of course. Has Akash been charged yet?” He spoke the name with disgust. Admitting their biological relationship was anathema to him.

  “No. I thought it best to speak to you in person. We have the autopsy and crime scene results.” She shuffled her papers, placed them on the table in front of her, and looked him in the eyes. “Akash Choudry did not murder your mother, Mr. Mansoor.”

  Arjun stood, sending his chair clattering to the floor. Above him the blades of the fan revolved in slow motion, filling his ears with a sudden din. “Of course he did! He’s insane. He killed my mother out of jealousy and lust. I’m sure of it.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Mansoor. Let me explain.” Her tone held no room for dissent. “We have the lab reports. We’ve conducted a psychological evaluation of Mr. Choudry. No evidence of psychosis has been found. He was simply too scared to tell you the truth—”

  “Bullshit.” Arjun sat rigidly, teeth clenched. “Decades of living on the streets with no income, no family ties, no home? I’d call that the definition of madness. He is hardly an upstanding citizen. My mother was a clever woman, but even she was duped by him. I thought he was at best a disappointment, at worst a danger. I didn’t want to be proved right.”

  “It’s bad luck that brings Mr. Choudry to where he is today, not madness,” said the inspector.

  “Okay, maybe he’s not insane, maybe he lashed out in a moment of confusion.” Arjun’s anger flared. “But he’s a monster, I have no doubt. He’s got previous form. He had an affair with my mother when he was already married. When his wife found out, she set herself alight. And how about how he first found us? Spying through our windows, he was.”

  Inspector Fortes cut through his passion with ease. “Did you report that crime at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Mansoor, it’s my job to investigate the crime at hand. There is nothing I can do about a crime you failed to report,” she said sternly.

  Fury rose and bubbled within Arjun’s lungs, stealing his breath. “You have the knife. You saw him that day. How can you say it wasn’t him?”

  “Tell me what you saw, Mr. Mansoor. If it helps, tell me again what you saw,” she said, raking a hand through her short hair.

  “My mother wasn’t in her bedroom or the kitchen. I looked all over the house, by the pool. Then I went to his room, the Red Room. Maa was lying on the bed. At first I didn’t realise something was wrong. I thought she was perhaps sleeping. But she was so still, and my father was there. It was eerie. Just the way he was, so close to her.” His voice broke. “I shook her. But she was gone. There was this wound in her stomach, a knife on the bedclothes.”

  “What, exactly, was Mr. Choudry doing?”

  Arjun grimaced. “I think he was stroking her hair. He was crying.”

  “Do you think it is normal for a murderer to express kindness to the victim after the fact? Is this the normal behaviour of a psychopath, someone who has deliberately set out to kill a woman in her own home? Let me tell you what I saw. I saw a scared man, a distraught man who kept looking for you, not with anger but with concern. I see a man weakened by poverty and malnutrition, who finally had everything he wanted. A family. A home. Why would he jeopardise that?”

  “But—”

  “No. It’s my turn. Let me finish,” said Inspector Fortes, raising a hand, a stop sign. “More importantly, the clues about his person, the evidence we have uncovered, it all tells a story. Akash Choudry lied,
but he is no danger, neither to you nor to anyone else. I’d stake my career on it.”

  “Pah!” Disgust crawled like insects over Arjun’s skin.

  “The hidden paternity can’t have been easy, Mr. Mansoor, but here is the truth, if you are willing to hear it, and what I will announce at the press conference later today. The toxicology report was clear. The autopsy showed your mother had terminal cancer. Her doctor’s records confirmed it. She had weeks to live, if that.”

  Arjun paled. “Nonsense. She would have told me.” Even as he spoke, he knew it was true. He recalled how pale his mother had become, how thin she had grown even for her. Guilt settled in his stomach like a stone. His mother had always been there for him, and he had failed her.

  “Is there any reason why she might not have told you?” Round eyes, sad eyes, sought to make this easier for him.

  He sought for the truth. “To protect me, perhaps, but I don’t believe it. My mother was honest to her core. She embraced the hard reality of life.”

  “Even if she thought she was leaving you alone in the world?” The inspector fiddled with her pen. “Did you have any inkling?”

  “She was frailer perhaps, but I put it down to working too hard. I even bought her tickets to Goa to make her rest, but I was angry and never got ‘round to surprising her.” A hand clenched around his heart and twisted. How could he not have comforted her? And now his chance was gone. How scared she must have been. If his father had known, why hadn’t he told him? His anger swelled.

  “The angle of the knife, the pattern of the finger prints and blood spatters, all points to Akash Choudry’s innocence. Mr. Mansoor, your mother committed suicide.”

  An anguished whisper escaped him. “No. My mother is the strongest person I know. She wouldn’t have given up. She was happy. The business was going well, she was enjoying the baby. She was pleased to see my father.” He buried his head in his hands. It had always been the two of them. How could she be gone? He wanted to crawl into a corner and turn off his thoughts. “The last few weeks haven’t been harmonious. We argued. I couldn’t believe she had hidden my parentage from me. But she would have told me, I know it.”

  “Do you want my advice? What has happened will be difficult for you to bear. But in the end, your mother decided her fate. Don’t take that from her. She was a remarkable woman.”

  Arjun nodded, the words floating over him, not really finding a target.

  “As for your father, is there anything to hate about a man simply because he is down on his luck? Why do we assume that it was only he that benefited from your mother’s generosity in her final weeks? I’ve found nothing to suggest your mother was coerced. I met her once or twice at your restaurant. She wasn’t a woman to be cowed or bullied. Perhaps your mother needed him.”

  Arjun looked up, assessing the woman before him, her too short hair, her stern gaze. “And what if I ask for a second opinion?”

  “This is a cut and dry case, why else do you think my superior gave it to a woman?” said Inspector Fortes drily. “It’s within your power to have the case reassessed, rightly or wrongly. My experience has taught me that evidence is subjective. We are but building a story. Mr. Choudry’s fingerprints were on the knife. Find the right lawyer, and you might get the result you want. Someone who paints your mother as a woman without the protection of a husband.” She shrugged. “The justice system serves the rich better. Akash Choudry is not a man who will come off well in a court of law. Who knows? Your efforts could portray him as someone who preys on others. He could be subjected to many long years of incarceration. I can’t stop you from applying for a new autopsy, or pushing for a case against your father. But my advice to you is don’t punish him or paint your mother as a victim. That’s not who she was.”

  “Are we finished here?” asked Arjun.

  “Yes.”

  “My mother’s funeral can take place now?”

  “Yes.”

  He walked slowly to the door, his mouth set in a grim line. “Thank you for your time.”

  Chapter 31

  It took a week for Inspector Fortes to conclude the investigation and ensuing paperwork. A week for her to sanction Akash’s release. In that time, he experienced new lows of dignity. He pissed in a pot in view of other prisoners, was unable to wash himself when he stank and was unsure if the odour came from himself or the other men in his proximity. He had his legs spread while sleeping, an object thrust into his backside until tears came into his eyes and by chance the sleeping guard happened to wake. He knew better than to complain out loud. That would have earned an even greater punishment.

  When Inspector Fortes came to find him, he bowed his head in gratitude.

  “You are free to go,” she said.

  “The investigation?” His voice cracked. He had barely spoken in the cell. Not that he had missed it. Years of limited social contact had weaned him off the necessity of speech.

  “Is concluded. The coroner has ruled Ms. Mansoor’s death a suicide.”

  She accompanied him to the front desk and passed him his belongings: the locket, intact, and the torn envelope for Jaya. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had written it. He tucked it into his sock. He no longer felt the urge to woo her, even to see her. He felt depleted, as if only hibernation would help. Only disappearing altogether would calm the uncomfortable tide of his thoughts.

  He grasped the inspector’s arm. “Have you spoken to my son?”

  “At length. Give him time. He isn’t a bad man. Neither are you.”

  She bade him goodbye at the exit to the building, a hushed space without the press vultures. They had lost interest, Akash supposed, now he had been acquitted. It would be somebody else’s turn soon. As he crept out into the sunlight, his eyes blurred and he shielded them. He filled Arjun’s shirt and trousers better now, despite his ordeal. Lack of movement and regular food, however meagre, had added weight to his frame. It seemed unfair to have increased in size when Soraya’s body wasted away.

  He wondered if she had been buried promptly in accordance with Islamic scripture. Perhaps there was a fresh mound of earth where she lay that he could visit to pay his respects. He looked up at the sky, at the wisps of clouds linking together like gunmetal chains in the blue. He paused on the steps of the police station. A sparrow landed there and cocked its head. Akash crouched and held out his hand, his gnarled bones twig-like as they neared the bird. It took flight, the beat of its wings in time with the pump of his heart.

  He no longer knew where he belonged, his psyche not whole but divided into thirds, a magnetic pull towards the son who hated him, the wife he had abandoned and the loyal friend who waited. He planted a careful foot on the ground ahead, willing himself forward into a future that dissolved as he watched.

  Akash and Tariq lay on the beach, looking up at the stars. It had taken Akash most of the day to make his way to his friend. The thought of unwrapping his problems for Tariq repelled him. He didn’t want to drudge over the pain. It turned out the hardest thing had been to show up. His spirits had lifted when he found Tariq, not stratospherically, but enough to keep at bay the dark cloud that pressed him.

  “She was so lucky not to have any regrets,” said Akash. It suited him to look away from Tariq while he explained. A hint of sympathy would break him. “She had it all worked out. I’m so lucky to have found her. I would never have known Jaya and Arjun lived had it not been for her.”

  “You could say that she hid it from you,” Tariq’s voice trailed. “But it helps to be positive.” They knew each other long enough to know when the black lurked underneath bravado. “And that’s why she wanted you to stay? To sit with her as she died? To be her partner in death?”

  Akash nodded.

  “Shit, that’s seriously messed up, yaar. What a burden she asked you to carry,” said Tariq, shaking his head.

  “It was an honour. But this sadness, it’s crushing me.” Akash gripped a handful of sand in his fist and let it crumble away.

  “Yo
u did as she asked.”

  “I guess. She didn’t once change her mind.” Still, doubt plagued him about whether he had done the right thing.

  “Then what is the problem? The police have let you go,” said Tariq, confused.

  “I destroyed a family in the process.”

  “Not you. Life. Life happened. That’s all.”

  And so Tariq listened, without recriminations, to Akash’s abridged story of Soraya’s final hours, never doubting the veracity of his friend’s innocence, never prying for the details that were too painful to give.

  “I know I keep saying it, but I’m sorry, yaar. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m glad, too, that you’re back here with me. I missed you,” said Tariq.

  Was it selfish for Tariq to make this about himself, his loneliness? As if he preferred them to be together to deal with the trials of the streets, that deep down he hadn’t wanted a happy ending for Akash. Akash shook his head. He couldn’t let these thoughts take hold of him. Tariq was an ally. Perhaps his only true friend. He stood, a deathly weariness hanging over him, and spread out a threadbare blanket next to Tariq while his friend nattered on.

  Truth be told, his time in the rose bungalow with Soraya, Arjun and his family had felt like being caught up in a beautiful dream that was not his own; an attempt at love and belonging after all these years he didn’t deserve, an interlude, a trick of vengeful gods, seeking to punish him. Although he had been cast out, Soraya’s house, a stone’s throw away, still called to him like a lighthouse. It was a fool’s errand to vex Arjun any further, however much he needed to witness for himself how his son was coping.

  “Is there no chance of reconciling with your son?” said Tariq, his bald head glinting under the streetlights.

  Akash closed his eyes. Tiny balls of light danced before him. Tiredness had found a permanent home in the crevices of his bones. He couldn’t escape it. He yearned for an end to it all.

  “Look, if you need to talk about more than the bare bones, I’m here.” Tariq paused. His cough reared up and filled the silence between them.